In Recovery
by Intricate Wires
Summary: Daily life in the Shield Psychiatric Facility adolescent ward. Arguments, therapy, drama and tears, with the odd smile and laughter thrown in. Or, how several young men meet and bond at a really bad time in their lives. AU; mentions of self-harm and suicide.
1. Admission

**A/N:** Yes, I'm writing a similar story for another fandom right now, but this popped into my head last night and now I can't get it out. Hopefully I'll manage to update the two of them at a similar pace.

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**In Recovery  
Prologue**

It wasn't the fact that he'd gotten so angry that he'd managed to black out with rage. Nor was it the fact he was now in a cubicle of the emergency room, in nothing but a pair of boxers. No, what the problem was is this kept happening with Bruce. There's only so many times you can put yourself, and others, in danger before they decide something's not quite right, and you find these people signing your life away. Or, the next indefinite amount of time. The hospital had shoved him into one of their taxis and sent him off, his upset mother promising she would be by later with a bag if needed and to take care of himself. He hated seeing his mother upset, even if it was less often than when his father had been around. He was pretty sure the reason she still kept crying was down to him.

One assessment with the on-duty psychatricst and Bruce Banner had been deemed a danger to himself, and became the newest patient on the adolescent ward of the Shield Phsyciatric Facility. On being given the news, he found himself seeing red and had to be given some time to cool down while the paperwork was being filled in. His monther arrived with a large bag later, went to another room with the psych and another doctor, came out crying again and looked over at the boy. She came over and sat with him for a while, her hands folded neatly in her lap.

"I'll be okay. It's okay."

The words came out as a croak. His mother sniffed, nodded and promised to come visit him at the weekend. Within minutes she was gone, and here he was. Left in the care of this strange, new place. One of the orderlies, a beaming man with a booming voice, came to collect him and show him to his new room. Moving onto the ward, he was accompanied by one of the other psychiatrists. He introduced himself as Doctor Coulson, and Bruce wasn't surprised when he didn't offer his hand to shake. As he was led into the ward and down cream halls with linoleum floor, his shoes scuffing along every so often and making a squeaking noise, he checked around. The halls were mostly empty, which was slightly unnerving. Coulson seemed to pick up on this fast.

"It's a Tuesday afternoon. Most of the people on the ward will be in group right now, and should be back in around half an hour."

Bruce just nodded, wanting to get to his room and unpack. The bag seemed heavy on his arm, and so much had changed since 4am that morning. When he was finally at the door of room 7, he was told that patients were picked up from the ward for dinner, curfew was 10.30pm, doors can't be locked, a doctor would be with him tomorrow to discuss a timetable, take this afternoon and evening to settle in, thank you and goodbye. Also he had a room mate called Tony who could be a handful, don't worry too much about it.

Shield wasn't the most intimidating of places. Bruce had found himself in enough hospitals over the years, and some of them hadn't been the nicest. Mostly the ones where the doctors were afraid of touching him, fully understanding where his bruises and cuts had come from, but didn't want to be the person to breach that topic. Sometimes he'd have to talk to a social worker and sometimes he would stay with someone else for a couple of days, but it was always the same. Well, until his father had finally walked out when he was thirteen. Hard to believe he and his mother had been without the tyrant for three years now, but it was obvious that the two of them still worried that one day he'd reappear and want back in, and they'd be powerless to stop it.

Letting himself into the room, Bruce sighed and pushed his bag against the foot of the bed. It was nothing remarkable; two beds, two sets of drawers, two bedside cabinets and painted mint green. His room mate wasn't there, and he slowly unpacked his belongings, assuming it would be fine to use the empty drawers. The other wall had scribbles blu-tacked to it; blueprints, drawings of machinery, and the occassional magazine article. Whoever else shared this place, he had been here a while and probably spent the majority of it away from the other patients, keeping to himself and his own interests. It seemed odd to decorate a hospital room if you weren't going to be there for some time.

It wasn't long until he met Tony. More, Tony barged past him and into the room, threw himself onto the bed facing the wall and didn't speak. Barely even moved. Bruce watched the other boy pull the ratty grey hoodie tighter to his body, clearly trying to make a point of saying not to go near him. Outside, someone was talking loudly about how they didn't know what set him off this time, he needs to step down and just stop it. They don't sound very pleased. Seemed to be another patient as well. Tony continued to stay still, probably trying to send himself to sleep. Perhaps group really was that bad.

Well, it's not like Bruce came here to make friends anyway. Perhaps he could get a short nap in before the orderlies and nurses came to take the ward to the dining hall. He finished setting his small stack of notebooks on the cabinet beside the bed, pulled back the startchy hospital-issue sheets and slid between the covers. Hopefully, the stay wouldn't be too long.


	2. Meet and Greet

A/N: Second chapter! I'm almost done with the third as well. The stories are all linear, so you'll be able to tell time is passing as you read, but I'm trying to keep them as little snapshots instead of one big, rambling story.

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**In Recovery  
Meet and Greet**

As it turned out, Tony was actually quite talkative. He liked building mechanical things, especially from scratch, and programming. On their way back from the dining hall on the first night, he had started talking to Bruce and had more or less never stopped. He showed him the designs on his wall and talked them over, even if Bruce wasn't particularly interested, and encouraged Bruce to show him the contents of his own notebooks as well. Tony was arrogant, but endearingly so. Generally, the other patients liked him, he was that easy to get along with. Even when being obnoxious, there was still charm and enthusiasm. He also told his room mate that he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, rapid cycling, and that his arms and thighs are littered with scars. It wasn't information Bruce really had to be told, as Tony spent most of his time in worn-out band shirts and slept in a pair of boxer shorts. The scars right down the middle of both forearms were the worst, but perhaps they had become badges of honor to him.

(Bruce didn't have any scars. Not for lack of trying; he just could never bring himself to do it.)

Tony also liked to, in his own words, "play crazy". From the way he flipped out at the nurse when she tried to hand him his medication, managing to make himself look both terrified and furious until she left the small cup on the table and backed off a few paces, or sitting on the floor and tucking his knees to his chest if he didn't want to go to the dining hall for dinner. Sure, it meant an occassional trip to whatever doctor was on duty that day, but it got him what he wanted. However, by the third time he'd pressed himself against a wall after one of the nurses had touched him on the shoulder without warning, Bruce had to wonder if it was really as fake as his room mate claimed it was.

It turned out that yes, Tony had been arguing with another patient. A patient he routinely found himself in fights with, and insisted it was down to the other boy thinking he was perfect. His name was Steve, and Bruce found him quite easy to get along with. He did seem very focused on the whole recovery side of things, and wasn't above pestering the other patients to eat or take their meds. Even Bruce found himself on the end of a lecture when Steve caught him tonguing his sleeping pill, even though he'd hoped to stay up for the rest of the night and finish reading a book Tony had let him borrow. Apparently physics could wait until morning, whereas his body needed all the rest it could get. He had to hold in a laugh when Tony appeared behind him, saluting and shouting "YES SIR". In the argument that followed, Bruce managed to slip away and hide the sleeping pill in his pocket. Steve was possibly the only person who didn't find Tony endearing in any way, and made a point of making it known. The constant arguments were enough to make Bruce's blood boil, and more often than not he found himself moving to another room if the two of them started. So far, he'd only threatened to throw a chair at them if they didn't shut up. He didn't want to stick around and see if he actually followed through with it.

The third patient Bruce found himself talking to was Clint, a sixteen-year-old boy who missed archery and had an eating disorder, among other things. He was normally found perched on one of the sofas, surrounded by the comforter from his bed and clothes that looked ridiculously big on him. There were probably other issues too, but nobody wanted to pry. It was an unspoken agreement that nobody tried to pry information or diagnoses out of anybody else- that's what the doctors and the group therapy was for. The only reason Clint's eating disorder was common knowledge was because of the nurse standing over him at meals, and how he had to stay supervised for an hour after them. He seemed pretty good at taking it all in his stride, although sometimes he did mutter about wanting to throw up when they retreated to the television area for a post-dinner film. The archer has weighed up the odds, and he had more or less stopped throwing up in here. It still happened on occasion, but it was to be expected.

Of course, there were other patients in the ward, but nobody really made much of an effort. The severely depressed usually spent their day in front of the television, others had bonded with different people in their therapy groups. All in all, Bruce was sure he had a good group of friends going on here. It was just a little awkward having to sit in a circle with them and a doctor, holding back from spilling out their secrets in front of each other. Nobody was quite ready for that yet, not even Steve.

Two weeks after being admitted, Bruce found himself sitting around a table with Clint, Steve and a deck of playing cards. Thor was finishing his shift, and called out goodbye to them. It was a shame; the large orderly was friendly, and pretty good at keeping the patients in the ward calm. It wasn't even his job; he was just that nice a guy, although he didn't seem like the kind of person whose bad side you'd want to get on. Bruce turned around, back to the game, and found Tony sitting at the table, playing a handheld console.

"Stark, have you really got to?" Steve frowned.  
"What now, Rogers?"  
"You _know_ what I'm talking about." He was eyeing up Tony's arms.  
"Some of us can handle being cut up like a Thanksgiving turkey." And smirk.

Tension was heavy in the air. Tony usually walked around in short sleeves, what was different from usual? Still, Steve stood up from the table, placed his cards down left, and a minute later the sound of a door slamming filled the recreation room. Tony made a point of showing he was going to ignore the situation completely, and put down another card.

"Does anyone except me know any other card game than Snap?"

Bruce sighed, and nodded.


	3. Crash

**A/N:** Glad people are enjoying this! Sorry for the delay in update. Also, there were a few errors in chapter 2 I've now gone back and corrected.

-  
**In Recovery  
Crash**

One night, long after curfew, Bruce found himself jolting awake. He also found anger bubbling up inside him, because he'd almost managed a full night's sleep, it wasn't a nightmare for once, how _dare _they-

And then there was a huge crash against a wall, as if someone had been thrown into it. His anger quickly changed to worry, because of all the noises he had experienced since coming to the ward, none had sounded as violent. Truth be told, he expected himself to be the first one to start throwing furniture around. It was followed by a loud crack, as if something had smashed this time. There was yelling, as if whatever was throwing their weight around was in some kind of agony. The howling pierced through their hallways, the walls, and worked its way into the head of the startled patients. Bruce hadn't been on the ward long enough to know what happened when a patient went completely over the edge. He got the feeling that tonight, he'd find out.

"What the fuck is that?" Tony asked groggily, pulling himself up from his bed. Shouting was always an easy way to wake him.  
"I don't know."

While Tony rubbed his eyes and The two of them scuttled towards their door and pressed their ears up against it, trying to figure out where the noise was coming from. Yes, it was here, but where exactly could they find the source of the noise? Still though, no clue just from sound alone. It wasn't next door, or across, and that's all they could tell. Instead, Tony took it upon himself to open the door. Peering out into the corridor, there was nothing. The lights were off, and there were no indicators that anyone else could even hear it, until another door creaked open and people slowly began to crane their heads around. One by one, people appeared from their rooms, and lights were switched on, illuminating the bare corridor and stark linoleum flooring. Trying to drown the noise out, Bruce wondered how people were meant to entirely recover in such a bleak building. Not even his own room, despite Tony's attempts at decoration, really brought about any change.

The ward had gathered in the hallway by the time the main lights were switched on. A doctor, a nurse and two orderlies arrived and ran past, towards the noise. Bruce took some comfort in knowing that at least he hadn't been the only one woken up by whatever was going on. Beside him, Tony exchanged a shrug with Clint further down the hallway. Slowly, it dawned on him that something wasn't quite right. Someone was missing. Once again, the uneasy feeling started to gnaw at Bruce.

"Tony," Bruce nudged him, "where's Steve?"  
"Probably doing the right thing and staying in bed. He does that."  
"Isn't that his room the nurse just ran into though?"

Tony whipped his head around, staring further up the hallway. It was, and Steve didn't share with anybody. The boy muttered under his breath, Bruce only catching the word "shit". The yelling increased, the nurse left the room to run down the hallway to the station, and the yelling turned into violent sobs. Each one ran right through Bruce, even if he didn't know who Bucky was or why that name was echoing through the corridors. Clint stood across the hallway, watching with his ears covered, looking as though he could feel the pain from each scream. As Bruce made eye contact, the sobbing slowed down. The murmers of the doctor's voice were clearer now, and soon enough the only sounds presumably from Steve ended up becoming the occassional whimper. There was shuffling, and Bruce noticed Tony's whitened knuckles from where he was holding onto the door frame. Clint had uncovered his ears, and now stood around awkwardly, not quite sure what to do. He opted for shoving his hands in the pocket of his purple hoodie. The same one he'd bitched about before, since the drawstrings around the hood had been removed. In hindsight, considering some of the outbursts that happened here, it was understandable why it had happened.

Soon, Steve was marched past them by the orderlies and one of the doctors. His eyes were puffy, and the staff had made a point to cover his arms. Not even putting up a fight, moving like a shadow, he walked away. Without making eye contact, he was taken down the corridor and through the closing doors, away from sight. It seemed almost cruel; parading the one supposedly making the best recovery in front of them like this. The same person who had argued with patients over them skipping therapy and not taking pills. Who generally took part, and nobody could remember being excused from events.

Even Tony didn't have a smart comment for that. Instead, he turned to Bruce and mouthed one word, before turning back into their room.

"Solitary."

Solitary wasn't a place anybody wanted to go. Tony had been in once since Bruce's arrival; he came back pale, not very responsive, and spent the next two days sleeping when he didn't have to be anywhere. He bounced back quickly, because he was Tony, but it was still a pretty creepy sight the days he'd been out of it. Probably due to sedatives. Bruce shook his head as he climbed back into bed, tucking his knees close to his chest and feeling a pang of worry about his friend.

"It's the scars."

Bruce rolled over, hugging the blankets close and made a noise of curiousity.

"He really hates his scars." Tony continued, "It's why he always wears long sleeves, and picks at me for t-shirts."  
"Oh." Bruce didn't really know what to say to that.  
"He's probably got more cuts. Seems like he's got something to hide."

With that, Tony shoved a pillow over his head and stayed silent. It was his way of saying I'm done talking, leave me alone, and Bruce knew the feeling all too well. He could still hear nurses outside trying to get the patients back into their rooms, and there would be a click at their door any minute now to check the two boys had gone back to bed.

The thought of Steve's face, stained with tears and looking utterly defeated, was terrifying. It proved just how many secrets people in the ward were hiding.


	4. Relations

A/N: A short intermission this time. I'm working on more chapters, so don't worry I guess? Since the next two chapters will be short, I thought it would be better for a double-update.

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**In Recovery  
Relations**

It was a cool, summer night and the windows in the Shield male adolescent ward had been left open. Not enough for anybody to climb out, but for them all to enjoy the breeze flowing in and the fresh air. Steve had been back from solitary for three days, arms bandaged up and still slightly sedated, but he seemed to be doing better. Well enough for Tony to be using him as some sort of back rest. The four of them sat underneath one of the open windows, large enough to give a view over Shield's grounds, but unable to open more than a fraction in case of escapees. It wasn't the kind of breeze they really associated with July nights, but it was the best they could have.

"I had a girlfriend once. Had a boyfriend too, actually." Tony yawned.

Tonight's topic had started from how they'd spent their weekends before ending up in here, and had managed to morph onto the topic of partners. It was almost normal; almost the same as how they'd spend time with their friends if they weren't in a psychiatric unit. Or if they'd had friends.

"Really? I would've thought you'd be the type to have five at once, Stark." Clint laughed, patting him on the shoulder.  
"Hey, those were _relationships_. I don't know how many times I've fucked around."  
"You're only seventeen."  
"I started young."

Bruce smiled at the conversation, scribbling in a notebook. It wasn't really an area of his expertiese; he'd never really had time or interest in romance. His mind had been too clouded, with his family, with anger, with hating himself-

"What about you?" Clint asked, looking at him.  
"There was a girl once. We kissed and held hands, but it didn't really work out."

Betty had been nice. Her dad hadn't. Bruce never saw much of her after threatening to kill the bastard and putting his foot through the sitting room door after being provoked one too many times.

"What about you, boy scout?"

Steve jolted when Tony playfully shoved his arm, taking a minute to realise the question was directed at him. The sedatives had been pretty heavy. Still, everybody leaned round to look him in the face, Bruce even putting down his notebook for the moment. Mostly as a sign of solidarity; if anyone seemed like they'd have as little experience as he had, it would be Steve.

"Never been asked. Never thought to." Steve said slowly, thinking over each word, "but I kissed my best friend once. Nearly got further too."

A few minutes of cat-calls, whistles and general noise later, Clint decided it was his turn to pry for more information. He was pretty good at it too- even if his skills usually only went as far as finding out the ward staff rota for the week and what tomorrow night's dinner would be. Boredom came easily.

"Was she blonde? Y'seem like the kind to go for blondes. Bet she had great legs too, long-"

Looking down at the ground, Steve took a sharp breath. Partly still new to this group friendship thing, he didn't really know how to respond to some of the jokes he was on the end of. Or objectifying women, maybe that was the issue. It wouldn't be the first time he'd bitched Clint out for the way he'd talked about women.

"My best friend was a guy."

Clint shut up. Instead of a sarcastic comment, Tony settled himself back against Steve, and the topic was quickly changed. The past tense wasn't something any of them wanted to linger on.


	5. End Game

**A/N:** TRIGGER WARNING. This chapter is going to focus on Steve and Tony pre-hospitalisation, is in a different tense, and it's going to be pretty graphic. Huge warning. I'd advise skipping it if you're sensitive to these kind of things.

-  
**In Recovery  
End Game**

To be honest, Tony doubts they would've found him in time if he hadn't had this great idea to smear the blood from his wrists onto the wall of his father's study before passing out. If Howard was going to go anywhere before the liquor cabinet when he got home, it was going to be there. So it's not really surprising that he ended up in hospital, stitched up and being lectured by the emergency room doctor who'd been in this line for too many years and had seen too many attempted suicides to really care much any more.

He remembers being made to throw up thanks to some nifty little tablets and the bruised stomach he had for days after, and groggily trying to rip the IV out while screaming about being left to die. He can't remember if his parents were around, or if it was yet another task left to the family's aging butler, Jarvis. Although he's since been reassured that Howard and Maria were around, he can't bring himself to believe it. Tony also remembers kicking at one of the nurses trying to restrain him, and shouting WHY DID YOU FUCKING SAVE ME so loudly and so full of venom that he upsets the other patients and ends up being sedated.

He's placed under observation for a while, intentionally tears some of his stitches open, but calms down after they get re-done. Tony's exhausted. Howard doesn't want to come near him, making it through the doorway of his room once before turning back, and Maria seems icy, despite the fact she tries her hardest to put on a show.

Tony isn't really surprised when they tell him he's being admitted to a psychiatric hospital.

-

Steve remembers dragging himself downstairs. His mom was sitting on the sofa, still in her work uniform and reading the daily paper. He remembers tears forming in his eyes, and dripping blood on the carpet as it poured from the cuts on his arms.

"Mom, I'm sorry."

And then he fell over. His mom's screaming rang in his ears, her phoning 911 while trying to get him into a recovery position check his pulse, other things you'd expect from an overworked nurse being presented with a dying body. He tried to apologise, horrid guilt crashing over him in waves as he remembers hearing the stories of her trying to save his dying father, a night he doesn't remember because he'd been sent to the Barnes' and was too busy building a pillow fort on their son's bed. Maybe that's got something to do with the fact she keeps having to stop and forgets what else she's meant to do. When he passes out, she's just put the phone down and is staring right into his eyes. Steve smiles.

When he wokes up in hospital, Steve couldn't look her in the eyes, despite the fact she's still staring. It's almost as if she aged overnight. Your only kid trying to kill himself could probably do that to you, he thought bitterly. He still felt that same sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the small voice that told him to just get out of there and try it again. No matter how attractive, how involved, how kind he was, he was still asthmatic, still had brittle bones, still caused his mother too many problems and too much money. This was going to be yet another thing to add to the growing list, despite the fact she'd never hold it against him.

He lay back against the pillows, waiting for someone to come and assume this was all a knee-jerk reaction to Bucky hanging himself from the shower railing in his parent's home three months before. It was going to take all of what little energy he had left to tell them no, he gave his best friend the idea. Almost like he had killed his own protector. Years of spilling his confessions out, telling Bucky exactly how he felt, even down to the time he'd told him how he was going to wash his prescription pain-killers for a recent broken bone down with the bottle of vodka swiped a year ago from his friend's dad. The ideas came from him.

Steve just lies numbly as his mother cries, tells him she loves him, tells him she's found plans and pieces of writing he should never have made, or at least disposed of, and how they're going to get him help. All the help he needs.

Even though he's turned out just like his mother said he would, he can't stand it. The change is too much. The bottom line is, Steve hates himself.


	6. Static

**A/N:** Sorry for such a delay in updating. Long story short is I ended up in hospital again, and couldn't even my bring myself to look at this fic without fear that the cycle would happen again. You all deserve an update though, however brief, since you've stuck with me so far. Enjoy.

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**In Recovery  
Static**

Bruce came back from therapy sessions enraged. Everybody else knew to leave him well alone, not wanting to be the one that triggered one of the well-known rages that had landed him in the facility. Since arriving it had only happened twice, and only one of those had been bad enough for Bruce to end up sedated and kept in an observation ward overnight. After that, he never really understood why the other patients dreaded being sent to solitary so much, but perhaps they were all more social creatures than he could ever hope to be. Or maybe it was just the sedatives talking, and the whole experience had actually been some awful kind of ordeal.

Tony came back detached. He wandered the corridors and around the common room, avoiding conversation and occassionally stopping to stare out of windows. He'd walk, aimless, until they were called for dinner, and after he'd be Tony again. Well, the Tony that he allowed other people to see. Bruce tried to stay in another room when his friend returned, giving him as much space as possible and trying to encourage him out of his depressive stupor, leaving books for him to hopefully pick up or. Most of the time he just lay facing their bedroom wall, picking at an old scar and sometimes chewing on his bottom lip. Tony was a loud, proud person; lying like this just made him look broken. It was a terrifying sight. Even Steve started to leave him alone after therapy. Who really knew just how deep all of Tony's issues ran.

In contrast, Steve returned more emotional than usual. His reluctance gone, he'd look angry, like he'd been crying, drained... there was no guarantee. Yet again, people tended to avoid him until he'd managed to work through whatever had got to him that day. Sometimes he'd let the others know what had set it off this time (usually Bucky, Steve kept being made to talk about Bucky and the results seemed more disasterous than anything else) and sometimes he'd keep it to himself, excusing to go to the toilet and the sounds of angry sobbing making their way out. It was awful. Sometimes his mood would last right into dinner, and Steve would stab at his food with the plastic cutlery as if it would do any good. They avoided him as well when he was angry. When he was sad, they didn't know what to do and Bruce wondered if it was that reaction from people which had landed Steve in the ward in the first place. The best anyone could muster was Tony giving him a pat on the back and "there there, big guy", but that was pretty much it. On Steve's sad days, nobody went to bed feeling anything other than guilt.

Clint was impassive to the whole situation. Most of all, he looked bored with the whole thing. The sessions were usually the same- ask about his eating patterns, how he felt about his meals, how his body looked to him. Right now he was sticking around the same weight, still not healthy, but managing to fool his therapists just enough for them not to change their approach to treating him. Above enough to avoid any feeding tubes, but at a weight so low it meant increased supervision at meals. If anyone asked about it, Clint would just shrug and continue with whatever he was doing; speaking still wasn't anything he was very keen on. His friends did manage to find out this wasn't his first stay in hospital though, albiet his longest one. They also decided to turn a blind eye to the unwanted pills hidden in a hole in the side of his mattress. He knew what he wanted, even if he didn't know what he was doing.

Maybe this was how they were supposed to get better. What if the big secret they'd been missing all along was just to hold their hands up, admit they were genuinely crazy, and the doors would open and they would be free. Not that it was going to happen any time soon.

The best they could offer to each other was themselves.


End file.
